


Share and Enjoy

by travels_in_time



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travels_in_time/pseuds/travels_in_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is cold and wet and tired and all he really wants is a cup of tea.  Is that so hard?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Share and Enjoy

**Author's Note:**

> \--All credit for the inspiration for this fic must go to Douglas Adams.
> 
> \--Fluff. Fluffity fluffy fluff. Unbeta~ed fluff written at top speed at that. Beware of possible Britfail!
> 
> \--I've labeled it as gen, but those of you with your goggles on may be able to detect a little John/Lestrade. I can't help it.

It's not that Sherlock doesn't make tea. Oh, the job falls to John more often than not, but that's largely because John prefers his tea unadulterated with chemicals and body parts. No matter how he requests, nags, lectures, and occasionally shouts, the tea that Sherlock makes, absent-mindedly and haphazardly, generally turns out to be undrinkable.

And it's not that John doesn't understand that about Sherlock, or that it's an insurmountable obstacle to living with him. It's _Sherlock_ , after all, and genius does have its pitfalls. "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, isn't that what they say?" Sherlock had noted after the arsenic incident. "Who says that?" John had demanded, and Sherlock had shrugged. "Whoever says those sorts of things." John had bitten off his response to that and made a mental note to wash his own mugs hereafter.

But today it's cold and blustery, and the rain has been drizzling down the back of John's neck all the way home, so now he is soaked and freezing and his shoulder is aching, and all he really wants is a steaming mug of tea. Even the dishwater-tasting tea that is Sherlock's absolute best attempt at a drinkable brew. Possibly with biscuits. Definitely some food later, and a hot shower, and several hours of sleep, not necessarily in that order. But those can wait; they're not pressing. The need for tea is immediate, almost desperate.

Which is why, when Sherlock passes him a mug without looking up from his microscope, John takes a long, close look at it, and then sets it down on the table, very carefully. "Sherlock," he says, very quietly. Sherlock looks up instantly then. For all his carelessness, he knows impending disaster when he hears it.

"Sherlock, this...is not tea," John says gently. "This..." He takes another look at the mug, and inhales slowly. "This is some sort of disturbing brew from the depths of hell, in which you have--and pay attention, Sherlock, because this is the important bit--in which you have, for unfathomable reasons known only to yourself, decided to marinate mice foetuses."

Sherlock glances at the cup, raising an eyebrow. "Is that where they were? I knew they'd turn up eventually."

John explodes. Not loudly, nothing that would alarm Mrs. Hudson, but intensely, in the way that holds Sherlock still in fascination and what looks increasingly like alarm.

Tea, John states forcefully, is a drinkable beverage. Not, and this is non-negotiable, not one containing any sorts of body parts, from any sorts of bodies; not one containing any sorts of chemicals beyond those normally found in tea; not one poured into a mug that hasn't been washed in months and is now home to a woefully drenched and presumably unhappy colony of spiders.

Tea, John continues, warming to his subject, is also more than just a drinkable beverage. It is a mindset. It is a refuge, a spot of comfort in a cruel and unfeeling world, a pool of warmth in an increasingly chilly society. It is a societal ritual as much as it is a personal one; each pot of tea brewed reaffirms the individual's connection to his culture, his history, his background.

John's rant has now gone far beyond Sherlock's spectacular lack of tea-making skills. He touches lightly on the subject of British imperialism, condenses the history of the East India Company to a few brief sentences, describes a few Asian tea ceremonies, outlines the impact of tea on the world's economy over the years, refers briefly and bitterly to the Boston Tea Party, sighs in irritation over the inexplicable failure of most Americans to comprehend the very idea of hot tea, and eventually winds down with a very long, very detailed lecture about how to _properly_ prepare a cup of tea.

When he finally stops, it's more because he's run out of steam than because he's run out of things to say. That, and he's quite surprised that Sherlock hasn't stopped him, or walked out on him, or set something on fire to distract him. Then he gets a good look at Sherlock. The microscope has long been forgotten. Sherlock sits at the table, his hands steepled before him, his eyes fixed on John unblinkingly. He looks like a statue.

"Sherlock?" John says uncertainly. He's not angry anymore; in fact he's starting to feel rather foolish. The heat of righteous indignation is wearing off, and he's remembering that he's cold, and wet, and tired.

Sherlock doesn't answer, doesn't move, and John is too worn out to try to figure out what's got him lost inside his own head this time. He drags himself to his feet and plods upstairs.

********************

Sherlock is still sitting at the table when John gets up in the morning. It doesn't look as if he's moved. Hardly the first time that's happened, though, John reasons, and leaves for work with barely a qualm.

********************

In the evening, Sherlock is stretched out on the couch in a dressing gown. Back to normal, then, John thinks. Sherlock isn't speaking, but that, too, is normal for him. Sherlock's phone goes off several times, but he ignores it. At one point he springs up from the couch, retrieves his laptop from the kitchen, and flings himself back down.

Later, when John decides to check his e-mail before bed, he gets nothing but errors. Frowning, he looks over at Sherlock. "The internet's down."

Sherlock's fingers are flying over the keys, as they have been non-stop for the past few hours. "I'm using it."

"You're using...the internet?" John shakes his head. "It doesn't work like that." He pokes at his laptop a few more times, but it refuses to cooperate. He looks over at Sherlock again, who is clearly not having the same problem. "You can't be using _all_ the internet."

"Mmm," Sherlock says, which John decides is not worth attempting to interpret.

Sherlock's phone goes off again. He ignores it.

*********************

Two days later, Sherlock's phone has gone dead because he hasn't bothered plugging it in. He hasn't bothered to do anything at all, from what John can tell, besides lie on the couch, either surfing the net or staring blankly up at the ceiling.

He's doing the staring version when Lestrade bursts into their sitting room without knocking, a habit of his reserved for the most baffling cases. "Answer your damn phone, Sherlock," he growls, by way of a greeting.

Sherlock doesn't blink, doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge his presence by so much as a flicker. He might as well be an exquisitely preserved corpse.

Lestrade strides over to him and pulls the dressing gown sleeve up over one elbow. Three patches on his arm, and John resolves to speak to him about that. Again. Lestrade drops Sherlock's arm and glances at John.

"I'm pretty sure he's not on anything else," John offers.

Lestrade frowns at him. "He doesn't ignore me when I've got a case on. Unless...has he got something else going?"

"Not as far as I know," John says carefully.

Despite Sherlock's accusations and insults, Lestrade is actually a good detective, John knows, practiced at reading body language and used to interrogating reluctant witnesses. "What _do_ you know?"

John shrugs. "We had a bit of a row. I dunno, maybe he's just...processing. Thinking things through. I told him..." But he stops there, flushing. It's too ridiculous; he can't repeat it.

Lestrade looks back at Sherlock, who hasn't moved; who isn't, as far as the naked eye can tell, even breathing. Then he glares at John. "You've broken my consulting detective," he snaps, and stomps away, down the stairs.

"Hey!" John shouts after him. "Does this mean we're off for tonight?"

**********************

The next night, the phone has been charged up; Sherlock spends a couple of hours furiously texting before grabbing his coat and scarf and disappearing out the door. He's still not talking to John, not responding to any sort of conversational overtures or reacting in any normal fashion whatsoever, but oddly enough, John doesn't mind very much. He doesn't feel ignored; it's as if Sherlock's brain is overclocking, working itself so hard that there's no processing power left for anything else. If his brain really were a hard drive, as he likes to think of it, John is certain that his eyes would be spinning hourglasses right about now.

That is, of course, when Mycroft Holmes chooses to come calling. Unlike Lestrade, he knocks; also unlike Lestrade, he is not prepared to accept John's stumblings and silences as an answer.

"I know my brother," Mycroft says. He taps the tip of his umbrella lightly with his thumb, and examines it carefully. "He has some strange patterns of behavior, yes, but they are demonstrably _patterns_. This doesn't fit." He regards John. "What is he doing, and why?"

John's still not scared of Mycroft; hasn't been since that first day in the warehouse. But he's not keen on looking stupid in front of either one of the Holmes brothers, and right now he honestly doesn't know what to say.

Mycroft sighs. "He has disrupted his routines, rearranged his schedules, harnessed a truly ridiculous amount of processing power for his computer--and a lovely time my assistant had finding an explanation for _that_ , I may say--ignored Scotland Yard's requests for help, and now he's mobilized his street network. Surely you must know what he's up to."

John shakes his head. "I really don't."

Apparently Mycroft has some sort of top-secret government-level truth-serum-stare, though, because he cocks his head and just sort of _looks_ , meaningfully, at John, who blurts out, completely without meaning to, "Tea."

Both of Mycroft's eyebrows rise. "Tea?"

"I wanted some," John says miserably. "I asked him--well, I sort of shouted, to be honest..."

"Tea," Mycroft repeats incredulously. "You've put him into this condition for _tea_?"

"Well, not on purpose!"

Mycroft stands up and looks John up and down once more. John can _see_ the cataloguing happening, the analyzing and the deliberating, the cross-checking and reference filing. Finally Mycroft nods at him. "I'm sure it will wear off in time. Thank you, John."

John nods, and Mycroft turns to leave. Under his breath, he mutters, " _Mostly_ harmless," as he goes.

******************

When John gets home the next night, there is an irritated and shivering detective inspector on his doorstep. Mrs. Hudson is out of town for the weekend, and apparently Sherlock isn't answering the door. Lestrade follows John up without waiting for an invitation.

Sherlock's bedroom door is closed. "He asleep, then?" Lestrade asks.

"Must be, if he didn't hear you ringing," John said. "He must have finally passed out."

He takes another look at the kitchen table. A silver tray has been carefully set out on it. A teapot and two delicate cups--not mugs--rest on the tray, along with a packet of beautifully wrapped biscuits that certainly didn't come from Tesco's. Sherlock's scarf is serving as a tea cozy.

Lestrade studies the tray as well. "You did ask me in for a cuppa, didn't you?"

"Among other things," John murmurs. He takes the hint, though, and pours each of them a cup. It's still steaming, he notices. He takes a cautious sip, and then an incautious gulp, burning his mouth in the process. He doesn't care. It's the best-tasting tea he's ever had in his life.

Lestrade sniffs at his cup cautiously, and then tastes it. His eyes roll back in his head, and he makes an almost obscene noise. "Oh, _God_ , that's amazing."

John holds out the packet of biscuits to him. "Here, have these."

Lestrade rips into them. "This," he announces around a mouthful, "is amazing. You have to try some."

John doesn't want to, doesn't want to do anything to diminish the exquisite taste of the tea, in which he can taste exotic spices, faint flavors, subtle hints and almost-familiar shades. It somehow manages to simultaneously taste like exotic far-off lands, and like home. But Lestrade insists, and he allows himself to be persuaded. And of course the biscuits are wonderful too--light, not too sweet, the perfect complement to the perfect tea.

"I could _kiss_ Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade declares. He's gulping the tea down in what John considers is a far too wasteful manner.

John objects to this plan. "I inspired him, you know." He spies a neatly folded note that had been hidden under the biscuits. He fishes it out and unfolds it. _Elementary, my dear Watson._

He grins, showing the note to Lestrade. "See? Told you."

Lestrade takes another sip and makes that noise again. John looks down at the note. There's another line, under the first one; _Share and enjoy._ "I certainly intend to," he murmurs.


End file.
